Stereotypical Heartbreak
by CourtneyEllen
Summary: He had thought Marcus was the exception to those stereotypes.


For QLFC, I was given the prompt: Star-Crossed Lovers. Write about a romance that's doomed to fail.

Word Count; 2,465

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Ever the optimist, Oliver Wood wanted to see the bright side of things and break the stereotypes. But in the backwards thinking, post first wizarding war society there was nothing more prevalent than inaccurate stereotypes that kept all of wizarding society from coming together like they should do to preserve their world from extinction.

But what did Oliver know? He was only a nineteen-year-old ex-Gryffindor with a broken heart. He supposed that it was his fault for falling in love with a Slytherin, whose father had been outed after the first wizarding war as a Death Eater, leaving his son with the title of 'future Death Eater'. Even with all the rumors and speculations, Oliver had refused to believe the whispers and had put his heart into Marcus Flint's hands. What a mistake that had been.

It had all begun when they were thirteen, right before their first Quidditch game against each other. Oliver had been nervous, this being the second game of his Quidditch career, after he had gotten knocked unconscious within the first fifteen minutes of his very first game. Charlie Weasley, their current captain, had not been too upset with Oliver's performance, but the younger Gryffindor did not want to disappoint his captain once more. The stress of not failing his team led Oliver to hiding just outside of the changing rooms, a couple of minutes before they were set to warm up. He was bent over with his hands tugging at his short hair, a silent pep talk going through his head.

The words stopped flowing through his mind when another pair of feet appeared in his field of vision. Oliver's head shot up, and he flinched at the sight of Marcus Flint, one of Slytherin's Chasers. He had not been the one to knock Oliver out, Pucey had gotten that honor, but he had not been kind about it later when Oliver had woken up.

"What do you want, Flint?" he snapped, attempting to appear like he was not having a mental breakdown.

"Wanted to make sure you hadn't gone off the deep end. The game is more fun when you're falling out of the sky," Flint sneered at Oliver, taking a step back when the Gryffindor pushed himself up and entered his personal space. Despite the brusque move, Oliver simply sneered at Flint's words, not wanting to egg him on. Charlie had said that the Slytherins would do anything to distract them, and Oliver was not about to play into their hand. Something peculiar appeared on Flint's face, and the Slytherin leaned in cautiously. "Pucey prefers his left hand. Try not to take another hit to your head."

With that, Flint stalked off, leaving the Gryffindor alone and confused. Even more so when, during the game, he noticed that Flint had not lied to him, and he had been able to actually stay conscious for the whole match. Gryffindor still lost with Slytherin's Seeker catching the Snitch after Charlie had been hit with a Bludger, but Oliver could not feel saddened by the loss. No, he was curious of the Slytherin Chaser who had helped him instead of taunting him like the other Gryffindors had led him to believe that all Slytherins would.

* * *

Oliver began to question everything he had grown up learning – Slytherins were all bad, and Gryffindor was only full of good guys. The Scotsman did not receive any more helpful hints from Flint that year, but it was worth noting that after their first proper meeting, Flint had not teased Oliver openly, not even in front of his teammates or friends.

During their fourth year, the two were forced to interact more frequently – an uneven number of Gryffindors and Slytherins in their year meant that they had to pair up – and Oliver could feel those aforementioned stereotypes of good and bad breaking over time.

Marcus – Oliver had long since stopped calling him Flint in his head – was actually rather smart, not the troll that the Gryffindors called him. He was adept at Ancient Runes and could work at a level that many curse breakers only learned after years on the job. He also enjoyed drawing, though he believed he was awful at it. The most important stereotype/rumor that Marcus destroyed was that he was a Death Eater in training.

"I'm scared, Oliver," Marcus murmured during one of their library study sessions, both now fifteen and remaining potions partners – despite their 'growing animosity' towards one another on the Quidditch pitch – in their fifth year.

Others believed that they could not stand each other – and that is how Marcus wanted it to remain – when really it was just a fun challenge to play against the other with their budding relationship. Neither really was sure how it had begun, one minute they had been talking about Mandrakes, and the next, Marcus had pressed thin, chapped lips to his own. Oliver, who had been fighting with his sexuality at the time, had been stunned but had quickly given into his inner desire to kiss him back. What they were was unspoken between them; they did not need labels.

"Why?" Oliver, surprised by the genuine emotion in Marcus' voice, placed his Charms book down to look at the Slytherin. Marcus rarely showed emotion outwardly, not even to Oliver, but the Gryffindor could see the left corner of his lip squished between his teeth and the tapping of his quill on the table which gave him away.

"I don't want to become a De-" Marcus could not bring himself to say the words, but Oliver understood him all the same. Without thought, he reached across the table and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers and holding as tightly as he could. Oliver, after being told that all Slytherins wanted to be Death Eaters and do He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's bidding, - and suspecting Marcus did not fill in that all category - could not believe that the opposite was coming from Marcus' mouth nor did he expect the fear within those dark eyes. Marcus was terrified; a scared boy just like many Death Eaters had probably once been. Their future tainted because their forefathers had sworn allegiance to a monster in some idiotic purging of the 'impure'.

Oliver had known for a long time that Marcus was not completely identical to the other Slytherins when it comes to morals, but had been unsure about this certain tradition that many pure-blood, Slytherin families condoned until this very moment.

"Your father?" Oliver asked softly, knowing this was not exactly the place for this conversation, but they had always been good with full conversations said in few words. Marcus squeezed his fingers back, a deep sigh wracking his broad shoulders. Marcus' father had been outed as a Death Eater at the end of the war, but a low ranking one and had not gotten a life sentence, a useless sentence reduced with 'good behavior'. Flint Senior had gotten home over the summer, and Marcus had been tense and more reserved since.

"Pushes for it every day. He just does not understand that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is not going to return. I do not want to be a part of his twisted reality," Marcus hissed, passion coursing through him. Oliver wanted nothing more than to reassure all his fears, to make the worry go away.

"I can't do much, but offer you a place to stay," Oliver began, holding up a hand to silence any objection that would come from Marcus' mouth. "If he attempts to force you to take the Mark, you come to me, and I will hide you. Even if we get in a fight and absolutely hate each other when it happens. No one should have to be forced into that."

Oliver smiled sadly when Marcus tugged his hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles and reached forward with his other hand to stroke his cheek gently. This moment felt infinite, hidden in the back of the Hogwarts Library with their secret touches, a moment that both of them would have gladly lived in for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Oliver was eighteen when he noticed something off with his boyfriend. Marcus, in the four years that they had been dating, had always been a bit standoffish, especially when he had to repeat his final year at Hogwarts while Oliver graduated with the rest of their classmates. Although Marcus was not the most affectionate of lovers, he still had a soft side for Oliver, and yet the Gryffindor had not seen any kindness in the months that had followed Marcus' graduation from Hogwarts.

Cedric Diggory's death had been devastating. Oliver had cried when he'd seen the pictures of young Harry clutching the cold body of the Hufflepuff. Two boys that he had known dearly had gone into that maze, and both had not returned (Oliver knew all too well about Harry's martyr tendencies and knew the boy would tear himself apart for the rest of his life about Cedric). But he did not think that Marcus cared for either of them on the same level that Oliver did. Sure, he had played against them, but he had never gotten to know them like Oliver had. So the excuse that Marcus used to not sleep in the same bed as Oliver because "it did not feel right after Diggory" did not sit well with Oliver.

The Scotsman was not into drama when it came to his partner, so he did not push Marcus and gave him his space. When a week turned into two and then three and later four months, Oliver could not hold his tongue anymore.

"Marc, will you please come to bed? It's cold without you," Oliver said softly, trying to be as innocent as possible. It was a lie, of course. It was September and unusually warm, but Oliver hoped that Marcus would see the plea and finally join him in bed. For the past week, Marcus had, in fact, been sleeping in their bed, just never when Oliver was awake. He always fell asleep after him and woke up long before Oliver did. If Oliver was being honest, he missed his emotionally constipated boyfriend a lot, even if he was a space heater and would probably cause Oliver to die of heat stroke in the middle of the night.

"I'll come to bed later, babe. I'm not tired right now," Marcus did not even look up from what he was reading, some curse book or another, the same book he had been reading for two months now. Oliver sighed, walking up behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He did not expect Marcus to flinch away for him or to slam the book shut as if he were looking at Quidditch Monthly a bit too closely and his mother had caught him.

Oliver stared at the back of his head in surprise and held his hand against his chest as if Marcus' shoulder had burned him. "Okay," his voice was quiet and unsure as he turned on his heel and made his way to their bedroom.

Marcus snuck in hours later, both pretending that Oliver had not fallen asleep with tear tracks on his cheeks and that Marcus had kissed him before falling asleep with their backs to each other.

* * *

At nineteen, Oliver finally woke up before his boyfriend could escape their bed. It was their anniversary, and the Scotsman was ecstatic that he could actually wake up to Marcus instead of a cold bed. But, all the good feelings that Oliver had been enjoying vanished when he spotted black ink on Marcus' left forearm. No.

Oliver reached over and, as gently as he could, tugged the sleeve up. Flashbacks of his third year and his pep talk flashed in his head, only this time he was not trying to give himself a confidence boost; instead, he was begging Merlin for it be a Holyhead Harpies tattoo instead of the death sentence he believed it to be.

The Dark Mark was horrible to behold. The faded ones in the Daily Prophet from the first war had nothing on the real, pulsating thing. Oliver shivered at the sight of it. The skin of Marcus' arm was red and irritated and looked as if it hurt. Oliver had no doubts that it did. He shakily got up from the bed and hurried out of the room, not able to hold the contents of his stomach any longer as he bent over the kitchen sink. How could this be true?

Oliver Wood was nineteen when his boyfriend of five years rushed from the bedroom at the sound of him being sick, and Oliver flinched away from the outstretched hands.

"Babe?" Marcus questioned, concern flooding his voice as he tried again to steady Oliver on his feet. The Scotsman ducked away from his boyfriend's hands once more and pressed himself against the wall.

"Why?" Oliver hissed, arms wrapped around his stomach, inadvertently cradling his left arm to his body. Marcus stared back at him, confusion and worry etched into his face.

"Why what?" Oliver felt like bursting into tears. Is this what Marcus had been hiding from him? Why he would not come to bed at night?

"I said I would protect you. If he ever tried to force you, you were supposed to come to me," Oliver whispered, his voice cracking. All the worry and confusion fled Marcus' face, replaced with the cold Slytherin mask of their childhood.

"You couldn't have protected me," Marcus growled, his tone feeling like a Stinging Jinx to Oliver's ears.

"What do you mean? I said I would! You could have hidden here; they don't know where we live. I would have done everything to prevent it!" Oliver raved, finally uncurling from himself. He could tell that his face was contorted with desperation, hopelessly wanting Marcus' impassive face to show his fear, to show the boy who was terrified of this fate. The mask stayed in place.

"You couldn't have saved me because I wanted it," Marcus replied plainly as if he had not just crushed Oliver's heart with those nine words. Oliver fell back into the wall, his body feeling heavy with lead.

"Get out," Oliver demanded, staring Marcus down until the elder huffed at him and stalked away.

It was only once the door to their flat slammed shut that Oliver let his legs finally give in and the tears flow free. He had thought Marcus was the exception to those stereotypes. Apparently, he had been wrong on that front... Marcus Flint was a Slytherin turned Death Eater like his father before him, and Oliver Wood was the foolish Gryffindor who had believed he was different.

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I hope you guys like this one!


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